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‘So what does that mean, exactly?’ She frowned, not liking what she was hearing.
Melanie’s blue eyes took on a look of rueful sympathy that was warning enough for her next words: ‘She seemed to think it unlikely she’ll get here before you’re due to fly home. And now she’s in a dilemma because it appears that one of the models knows some fashion maven who has a holiday home in Nassau, and has asked if Karen would like to stay on there for a few extra days after the shoot…’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ muttered Luc cynically.
Veronica affected not to hear him, although she feared she shared his jaundiced view.
‘I see,’ she said, her face going hot with embarrassment on behalf of her sister. By the sound of it Karen was dying to snap up the invitation. Given her consistent evasiveness, the possibility of staying on in Nassau had probably been on the cards all along.
From the commiserative expression in Melanie’s eyes it was obvious that she suspected the same thing. Knowing what she knew now, Veronica guessed one of the reasons that Karen kept turning up excuses to stay away was probably to avoid being daily confronted with the object of her abortive crush. Her sister might appear to be cheerfully immune to rejection, but only because she had always deleted her mortifying failures from her consciousness and thus had never had to face the consequences of her behaviour—or learn from her mistakes. Until now. Setting her sights on a relative of her employer had been stupid, even for Karen.
However, Veronica was in no position to cast stones. She couldn’t really blame Karen for seizing the chance to escape a potentially awkward predicament, given her own panicked reaction to facing Luc again and vain attempts to ignore him!
‘For my part, I told her that we’re actually managing very well without her now that things have settled down. But of course I said I couldn’t speak for you,’ Melanie added hurriedly.
‘You don’t have to tiptoe around, Mel. I’ve told Veronica about Karen’s brief career as my stalker,’ interrupted Luc.
Melanie looked pained. ‘Hardly a stalker, Luc, she just went through a little phase. We’ve all made idiots of ourselves at some stage—I remember you had a crush on that dreadful young woman who was your Maths tutor when you were sitting your scholarship exams.’
She looked slightly aghast as soon as the words were out, but Luc merely grinned. ‘Anne had an IQ of one hundred and forty.’
Melanie’s tension dissolved into a laugh. ‘Oh, well—that explains why
you kept dropping things for her to pick up whenever she wore those tiny miniskirts and tube tops—it was her IQ you were really drooling over!’
She turned her attention apologetically back to Veronica.
‘When we originally made our plans, Luc didn’t think he was going to be able to make it for more than a day or two. It was only when he freed up a block of his time that poor Karen began to get a wee bit less enthusiastic about having the cottage while we were here. But, maybe this is fate—I mean, if you did manage to change the date of your flight home, you could either stay on here until Karen does turn up, or do as I suggested and go back up to take another bite at Paris. What do you think? Either way we’d adore to have you…’
‘I couldn’t have worded it better myself,’ murmured Luc for Veronica’s ears alone.
Her colour deepened, and, mistaking the reason, Melanie added kindly: ‘Of course, you might have other ideas. I know you’ve set an October deadline to get Out Of The Box fully functional, and you’ve already got someone contracted to deliver the application for your website, so you may be keen to rush back. Just remember, it won’t cost you anything extra in terms of accommodation if you do stay. Let me know after you’ve had a little think about it.
‘Anyway, I told Karen you’d call her back…even though you might not have much luck until the storm passes over. You can use the phone here if yours isn’t working. And don’t worry about the charges—thanks to my book it’s all a write-off to my taxes!’
Needless to say, in spite of her best efforts Veronica was unable to raise her elusive sister, and hanging up the receiver after her final attempt she was about to slip back to the cottage to obsess over all the tantalising possibilities encapsulated in ‘hold that thought’ when she ran across Sophie, who wanted to show off her room.
‘It’s upstairs on the corner. I can see the pool from my window. That’s how I knew you were down there today,’ she confided. ‘I was going to come and swim with you, because I’m not allowed in the pool by myself, but then stupid Ross was there,’ she said glumly.
Reminded of her obligation, Veronica allowed herself to be led to the big wooden staircase, past the gutted ground-floor bathroom, where Miles was already back at work, grouting a stretch of blue ceramic tiles in the huge sunken tub.
‘No rest for the wicked!’ His eyes crinkled over the top of his paper breathing mask as they poked their heads in to view the progress, Sophie wrinkling her nose at the strong chemical smell of adhesive.
Sophie’s room was bigger than her one at home, she reported as Veronica admired the high, beamed ceiling and dark, polished wooden floor offset by white walls and a pretty lavender-motif bedspread on the double bed, which matched the curtains on the two windows, one looking out onto the kitchen courtyard, the other the garden and one corner of the pool.
‘Gran says that this can be my room every time I come to stay,’ said the girl, explaining the origins of the rocks and ornaments she had collected since she had arrived, and arranged in neat rows on the chest of drawers. As Veronica sat on the bed Sophie opened the towering oak wardrobe that stood in the corner and proudly showed off the neat collection of clothes that only took up a small corner of the cavernous interior.
‘Be careful you don’t fall in and end up in Narnia,’ Veronica delighted her by commenting.
‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe is one of my favourite stories—I love all the Narnia books!’
Throwing herself onto her stomach on the bed beside Veronica, she gave her an oddly assessing look before seeming to make a decision. She wriggled forward to hang upside down and drag a bulging, square book from under the bed.
‘This is the scrapbook about Luc I’ve been making,’ she said shyly, hauling it up onto the bed and opening the patterned cardboard cover. ‘I brought it over to show him. See—Mum gave me all the old cuttings she had about him so it starts when he was still at school.’ She turned the pages of yellowing newsprint. ‘Whenever we see his name in the papers or on the Internet, or he sends me stories about himself from overseas, I paste them in. And I stick in some of his letters and the things he sends me, like programmes and cool autographs and pictures of him with famous people. He was real impressed when he saw it. He said I could be his official biographer,’ she said proudly. ‘That means I can write the story of his life. I think I might be a writer, like Mum, one day. I’m good at collecting information and I always get A for my essays.’
‘Not a builder, like Dad?’ murmured Veronica, dying to snatch the treasure-trove and pore over the fascinating contents.
‘I don’t think I’m going to be big enough,’ Sophie said seriously. ‘And I’m a bit clumsy at doing fiddly things. Luc says it’s because my brain is too busy concentrating on important stuff.’
